


stories

by bluebatwings



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: M/M, Pre-Slash, Stream of Consciousness, m e t a p h o r s
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-15
Updated: 2017-07-15
Packaged: 2018-12-02 12:46:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11509734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluebatwings/pseuds/bluebatwings
Summary: “'Stories are the wildest things of all,' the monster rumbled. 'Stories chase and bite and hunt.'”― Patrick Ness, A Monster Calls





	stories

Will’s back and head are leaned up against the bookshelf and part of him wishes he could completely tumble in. How much easier, he thinks, it would be if the words he would say were already written, his story laid out clearly in one of these carefully bound volumes. He doubts very much that he would enjoy any of the books on Hannibal’s shelf-- their tastes in literature and nonfiction surely do not cross-- but he wouldn’t mind being carefully selected, lovingly paged through, and gently replaced, as he’s seen Hannibal do numerous times. His story isn’t a good one; Will would not like to read it. In Will’s addled state, he thinks that Hannibal might, though. Hannibal has always seems to like his addled state.

It’s part of why he keeps coming here, he thinks. He wouldn’t have kept coming back if Hannibal had remained _Doctor Lecter_ with nothing but a professional interest and an order from Jack. Will doesn’t need to be here in an appointment, sitting on a leather couch being asked _and how does that make you feel?_ Or, well-- he _does_ , maybe, need that, but he won’t. He is surrounded by people who want to get inside his head the way he can so effortlessly do to others, but the only reason he keeps them in his life is because when they do it, it’s off the clock. It’s a kind of stubbornness, he supposes-- keeping his teeth locked firmly in the face of medical help, but spilling his soul to those who are not formally _his_ doctor. He wants to tell Hannibal his secrets.

And he wants to know _Hannibal’s_ secrets. He almost doesn’t care about the trade off, _I’ll show you mine if you show me yours_ , because it’s not about that for them (for him. Will doesn’t pretend to know Hannibal’s mind, although he suspects Hannibal lends him the same courtesy). He wants to talk, to tell without editing between his brain and his mouth, to look Hannibal in the eye as he speaks. He wants the same from Hannibal, to be the one he tells those thoughts to-- not because they’re alike, _kindred spirits_ , but because there’s a kind of intimacy there. Will craves it from him.

He wonders what Hannibal makes of him. He knows he makes people uncomfortable; Will’s proclivity towards murder-- or, no, but towards murderers is about more than just empathy. _Sympathy_ too, yes, but that’s not all, either. Understanding. Understanding, to the point of acceptance. Hannibal Lecter is the only person Will’s ever met who has seen that bit of him and didn’t bat an eye.

In fact, if Will didn’t know any better, he might say that Hannibal even _nurtures_ it. He asks him questions to help flesh out the feelings, proposes thought experiments to explore the ideas. It’s different from what Will’s used to. His lifelong practice of suppressing what others have said will destroy him is thrown to the wind in Hannibal’s presence. Will doesn’t know if it’s because Hannibal wants to watch the destruction or if he thinks that Will can handle it. (He wonders if Hannibal knows himself.)

Will hides sometimes in Hannibal’s office, when Hannibal isn’t there. He’s always inevitably found, among the rows of books. Will doesn’t mind. Hannibal’s not the one he’s hiding from, after all. Will thinks that Hannibal would even understand his muddled desire to become one of his books, one of Hannibal’s possessions, something hidden beneath a cover and yet filled to bursting. The thought of Hannibal’s hands on him, inside his pages, hangs at the back of his mind. He wants to bleed the ink of Hannibal’s stories.

Because, oh, what stories Hannibal has to tell. They’d be beautiful, Will is sure of it. Hannibal isn’t just an appreciator of fine food, but a _chef_ , creating complex beauty out of mundane ingredients. He doesn’t just explore other people’s minds, but influences as well. Sometimes it takes Will by surprise.

He hopes that he sometimes surprises Hannibal, too. He doesn’t particularly put any extra effort into it-- he doesn’t have anything _extra_ to give-- but there are times when he wants to be-- impressive. He wants to _impress_ Hannibal, to keep his (unprofessional) interest on him. Will’s never wanted that before. Prefers to be ignored, overlooked. It’s odd, to want Hannibal’s eyes trained on him, drawn back to him when he tries to look away. He thinks about Hannibal’s hands again, and about how a gaze can sometimes have weight, like touch. How words can feel that way, too.

His name, like puppet strings in Hannibal’s mouth. And Will wants him to use them. However he likes. As long as it’s _Will’s_ name he’s saying. As long as he’s the one Hannibal is always drawn back to. (He wants the story Hannibal writes to be about _him_.)  
xxXxx

He falls asleep there, on the floor and with the books, and wakes to a cool touch, hands on his face, his forehead, pushing his hair back. Blinking slowly, the face takes shape in front of him. Hannibal, on his knees at Will’s side, and isn’t _that_ a sight. Hannibal hardly lowers himself for anybody. And he’s wearing a smile that Will has only really seen a few times, _soft_ almost, the way Will feels right now, coming awake. He feels rested. The best sleep he’s had in days, maybe weeks, was on Hannibal’s floor. 

Hannibal’s smile widens and he lowers a hand, but keeps one in Will’s hair, petting, almost. Will leans into the touch. Hannibal says,

“Are you hungry?” Will sighs when Hannibal’s hand tightens in his hair.

“Starving.”


End file.
